[Complete.] When Bishop first joined the X-Men, he warned them that they would be betrayed by one of their own. He was right, but that's only the beginning of the story. (This story diverges from continuity just after X-Men #45.)

Bishop crouched in
the late night shadows, scanning the lakefront before him. The boathouse was
off to his left, windows darkened. Scott and Jean had gone to bed some hours
earlier. The sound that had alerted him repeated itself, a soft burble that
came from the lake. It might be a fish or a frog, but the sound just didn't
seem quite right.

He drew his weapon
with silent ease as a figure climbed out of the water onto the dock. His thumb
touched the power setting, ready to slide the indicator from stun to full. It
was only habit now. He had not used the full power setting in a very long
time. The figure stood on the dock for a moment, then raised its arms and
stretched with sinuous grace. Bishop recognized Psylocke and lowered his
weapon. He moved away as silently as he had approached, grateful that Elizabeth
did not seem to have scanned him. She probably would not appreciate having an
audience to her late-night skinny dipping.

Bishop shook his
head. How easily he forgot his real purpose with the X-men! But it was so
easy to absorb the almost carefree culture around him. Even the X-men did not
seem to understand the seriousness of their situation. For him, it was a
constant struggle to remain alert and not get distracted. Not even by an
illicit view of the admittedly very attractive ninja telepath. He pushed the
thought away. He had no business pursuing such things in this time, or this
place.

Bishop emerged
from the trees on the mansion's front lawn. The house was dark, with only the
decorative lamps on either side of the driveway lit. Bishop stayed out of the
circle of warmth they cast.

Always know
where y' shadow is, boy. The Witness' words came back to him as his gaze
swept the ground, checking to make sure that he had cast none. Bishop ground
his teeth in frustration. He had caught a glimpse of Gambit earlier that
evening as he went over the south wall. It galled to know that the Cajun had
passed him unnoticed as he had gone through his nightly survey of the grounds.
That was part of the reason he was still at it. Gambit had not returned yet,
and not knowing the man's whereabouts made Bishop very uneasy. That plus the
fact that he had gone over the wall and not taken his bike made Bishop think he
did not want anyone to know he was gone.

Bishop climbed the
mansion's front stairs and settled on the top one. The grounds were quiet, as
always. His stomach rumbled but he ignored it. Hunger was a small thing, and
this was just a protest from a body that had become used to eating whenever it
wanted. He had not known true hunger since his childhood.

A tiny sound, the
scrape of a shoe on the cement behind him, made Bishop's blood freeze. He
leaped to his feet and turned, gun centering on the source of the sound, all in
less than a second. A small flame erupted in the darkness, highlighting
Gambit's angular face. He lit his cigarette, snuffed the match with a snap of
his wrist. The dual scents of tobacco and sulfur assaulted Bishop's nose.

"Relax, Bish. It's
jus' me." Gambit has not moved. Were it not for the glow from his cigarette,
he would be invisible in the shadows.

"I rarely find
that to be the least bit reassuring." Bishop returned his gun to its holster.
"Any particular reason you were sneaking up on me?"

The corner of
Gambit's mouth curled upward. "Who said I was sneakin'? You not payin'
attention." He moved out of the shadows to lean casually against one of the
columns that decorated the porch front.

Time passed in
silence. Gambit extinguished the remains of his cigarette and the butt
disappeared with a flicker of motion. Bishop recognized the slight of hand for
what it was, and also realized that it was completely unconscious. Gambit was
not paying him the least bit of attention. He seemed wrapped in his own
thoughts as he stared out into the darkness. Eventually, he turned.

"'Night, Bishop."

"LeBeau."

Gambit passed him
and went into the house. Bishop watched him go and wondered, as he always did,
what the truth really was. As he had learned from his experience in the
alternate timeline of Apocalypse's domination, anything could happen. Gambit
had been loyal to the X-men in that timeline. And even if he had betrayed and
murdered the X-men in Bishop's own timeline, that was no guarantee that he
would do so in the present one. It was a frightening prospect, not knowing.
All he could do was continue to watch Gambit in the hopes that he would be able
to protect the X-men if necessary.

#

Remy LeBeau
ignored his reflection as he tossed items onto the bureau. Watch, lighter,
pocket change. The metal winked in the lamplight, but dully. It wasn't like a
gemstone or the warm luster of gold. Remy pushed the thoughts aside. Thinking
like that would only get him in trouble.

The clock on the
corner of the bureau showed a few minutes after four. It whirred softly as the
gears pushed the minute hand another notch forward. It was an antique, though
not particularly valuable. Remy had bought it because of the intricate carving
that framed the face. Unfortunately, it didn't ever keep exact time. His
watch read four fifteen or so, but he kept the clock because Rogue had once
mentioned how much she liked it.

You a fool, boy,
he told the reflection in the mirror. It only smirked back at him. Rogue was
down the hall a ways. She had finally come back, to the X-men at least. He
had been right about that. But there was nothing left of what they had had. Whatever
that had been.

Remy turned away
from the dresser, stripping off his shirt as he went. Now all she would give
him was the proverbial cold shoulder and an occasional icy stare. They had
survived the expected regiment of danger room sequences, proving to the
Professor's satisfaction that they could still work together. Other than that,
they avoided each other as much as possible.

Hunger gnawed at
him. He'd been too busy to eat much dinner and that was hours ago. He
finished changing out of the casual suit he'd been wearing, switching to
cutoffs. Barefoot, he left his room and padded toward the kitchen.

The sound of the
refrigerator opening alerted him. Someone else was in the kitchen ahead of
him.

Jus'my
luck. Prob'ly be Bishop. He paused, decided he was hungry enough to put up
with the man's antagonism, and stepped into the kitchen.

Rogue stood in front
of the open refrigerator door, hand on hip. She was dressed only in a
nightshirt-- the blue one that was her favorite. The backlighting from the
fridge outlined her figure neatly. Remy bit back the comment that rose to his
lips. He was too tired for a full-blown fight.

"Midnight munchies, chere?"

"Remy!" She
whirled, and put her back against the open door. "What do you want?" She
looked frazzled as if she hadn't slept much that night.

He advanced a
couple of steps. "Same t'ing you do, I expect."

She stared at him,
anger flashing in her eyes. "And what, exactly, is that supposed ta mean?"

She flushed.
"Oh." As Remy approached she sidled away from the refrigerator. "Ah wasn't
really hungry anyway," she said. Then she was gone in a flash of long leg and
red hair.

Remy sighed. He
got little satisfaction from winning these little scuffles. It was just better
than losing. Rogue had always had a quick temper and sometimes her tongue cut
deep. Keeping her off balance protected him from that, at least.

Appetite gone, he
built himself a sandwich and ate it. It had been a bad day all around. He was
having no luck figuring out what Sinister's angle was, and information about
the man was incredibly hard to come by. He had thought he had a lead on
something Sinister had been involved in several years earlier, but had turned
up nothing. He could still hope for a break, of course. Every gambler got one
once in a while. But he had a bad, bad feeling that he was going to get
blindsided by this one.

It was all just a
matter of time. He had already lost Rogue. Eventually, his past was going to
cost him the X-men as well. All he could do was wait for the end, and maybe
enjoy what he had for as long as it lasted. Sitting there alone in the
darkened kitchen, it didn't seem like that would be very long at all.